


favours

by QueenOfTheWesternSky



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Platonic Relationships, Welcome to the Madness (Yuri!!! on Ice)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 11:53:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14790017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfTheWesternSky/pseuds/QueenOfTheWesternSky
Summary: When Georgi, with a suspicious squint, had asked why exactly Yuri was there, somehow he kind of figured the kid might have killed someone and was rounding up assistance to hide the body. The actual answer was a lot stranger.“I need you to do my make up for the exhibition skate.”





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“Are you sure about this?”

“What are you, my mother? Just get on with it, I don’t wanna be late.”

Georgi looked wholly unconvinced by what he’d just said—and indeed everything Yuri had said about the sudden _last minute changes_ to his exhibition program. Yakov was occasionally lenient, but perhaps not as lenient as Yuri would have liked the older skater to believe. Not that it really mattered, Georgi hadn’t bought his bullshit for a second, he’d just sighed in that resigned way that meant he was going to go along with it anyway.

“Remember, if Yakov—or God forbid, _Lilia_ —ask, I had nothing to do with this.” Georgi stated, for the fifth time since he’d reluctantly agreed to help. He was digging through his toiletries bag, pulling out more make up than anyone in their right mind would need. Even Georgi.

“Yeah, yeah. I got it. You know nothing, you haven’t seen me.”

Truthfully, he’d been surprised bordering on suspicious the moment Yuri had turned up at his door—still overwhelmingly thankful Yakov hadn’t made them room together now that Viktor was rooming with his new protégé. It wasn’t that he didn’t _like_ their dear Yurochka, but close proximity for extended periods of time was just asking for disaster.

So when he, with a suspicious squint, had asked why exactly Yuri was there, somehow he kind of figured the kid might have killed someone and was rounding up assistance to hide the body. The actual answer was a lot stranger.

_“I need you to do my make up for the exhibition skate.”_

Georgi had _never_ seen Yuri Plisetsky so uncomfortable as he was while asking for a favour. Not even a particularly _grand_ one. But he’d agreed—because whether Yuri was occasionally insufferable or not, he was a rinkmate, and that meant something to Georgi Popovich.

“I thought you would have asked Mila for help.” He mused, digging out the right brush. “Close your eyes.”

Yuri did. It made him look softer; less angry. Georgi couldn’t imagine a world with a less angry Yuri; as pleasant a world as it might be. “Tch. No, the hag would just laugh—she’s unhelpful like that.”

It wasn’t exactly the most complicated look—the specs he’d been given were basically just _a lot of black._ Thankfully, that was well within Georgi’s wheelhouse.

He hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. She’s only unhelpful when she wants to be—you two’ve got that in common.”

“Yeah, and she _always_ wants to be.”

“She might not if you asked her _nicely._ ” He pointed out. Yuri screwed up his face like he’d just bitten into a lemon.

“Not in this lifetime, Popovich.”

Not for the first time, Georgi ponders his younger rinkmate (were it anyone else he shared ice with, he might say _friend_ ). He remembers meeting him when he was eight—and had already decided that he was going to beat Viktor in everything he had ever achieved, had declared as much loudly in front of him the first day he’d been brought to the rink. Georgi and a much younger Mila had laughed about it.

And now look at where they were.

One of the youngest debuts in history, a GPF gold medal and the annihilation of one of Viktor’s world records.

Looking back, maybe he should have taken Yuri a little more seriously. But at the time, Georgi had fully expected him to soften up over time. Surely it was all posturing, surely no one could sustain that level of anger and determination for very long without burning out.

But it had been almost eight years since then, and Yuri was as furious and determined as he had ever been. The years passed, and his guard only got higher, he only got better at keeping people at a distance.

Georgi didn’t like to think about it too much—it was sad, how removed he was from the rest of them. But somehow, he doesn’t think Yuri would take too well to being pitied, and Georgi had witnessed a twelve year old Yuri kicking Viktor in the chest so had he’d gone flying from one end of the rink to the other. Not worth the risk.

“I don’t know about that. Mila’s always been fond of you.” He withdrew the eyeshadow brush for a moment before deciding it needed to be darker.

Yuri furrowed his brows for a moment. “Baba? Unlikely. She just likes having someone to toss around.”

Georgi had to stop for a moment, brush midway to Yuri’s face, and wonder if that’s what the teenager really thought. It occurs to him then that he’d been assuming Yuri _knew_ they all cared about him. Because the thing about his rinkmates was that he didn’t always like them, he didn’t have to, but he did love them.

That’s what family was. Maybe not liking someone, but loving them regardless.

He’d always assumed Yuri understood that the way the rest of them did, and something cold blooms in his chest to realise maybe that wasn’t the case. As much as it might cause him shame, when he thought of family there was a brief flickering moment before he pictured his parents, in which he thought of the rink, of Yakov and Lilia and Viktor and Mila and _Yuri._

Maybe that was why he’d been so uncomfortable to ask for help—God knows, anytime he had to ask for help from _anyone,_ he faltered, or got standoffish and insisted he could manage alone. That was perhaps why he’d flourished under Yakov and Lilia’s tutelage. With them, there were no questions or requests, only orders.

“Are you done or just staring at me like an idiot?” Yuri drawled, eyes open and squinting sceptically at him. He’d been right—the vivid green of his eyes really stood out against the dark make up.

“Not done yet, close your eyes.” Georgi replies, getting back to what really is just a glorified smoky mess on Yuri’s eyes. Somehow it feels appropriate for what he can only imagine is going to be _teenage rebellion on ice._

He finds himself pondering Yuri more than he has in years—at first, his arrival had been a strange disturbance, having just settled after Mila’s arrival. But soon the novelty wore off, and it seemed as though he’d always been there. If he really tried, Georgi could remember when it was him and Viktor and Alexei—who had long since retired and moved on to other things. Back then Georgi had still been entertaining the fleeting idea that he could beat Viktor; he couldn’t, and now it seemed he might not ever beat Yuri either.

He finds he isn’t as angry about that as he could be.

Mostly he thinks he’s sad at the prospect that he might have failed the smallest and perhaps most needing member of their haphazard little family in some way. Now that he’s realised it, he can’t stop thinking it, seeing it. Yuri didn’t have _friends_ or _family_ or _equals._ He’d only ever had rivals—had declared himself one to Georgi and Viktor long before he was skating in the senior bracket. Hell, he’d even declared himself one to Mila, and the two of them would _never_ be in direct competition.

Not officially anyway.

Georgi wonders how much of that is Yuri’s own fault for creating so much distance, and how much blame lands on the rest of them for not realising just how great the distance had become.

He quietly resolves to do better, even if he's never sure what exactly  _better_ might be where Yuri Plisetsky is concerned. He doesn't mean to look at the teenager like he's a ticking time bomb, as so many people do, but despite his best efforts--despite everyone's best efforts--a lot of the time, it's still anyone's best guess as to what might send him flying into a rage. He pulls back, examining his work and the final product. “Open your eyes.” He does.

The green of his eyes is striking, and he does indeed look like an insecure teenager trying to rebel against ~~his parents~~ _Yakov._ Maybe if Georgi had been skating in seniors at that age, he might have rebelled a little too.

“You look like a mess.” He declares happily, providing Yuri with a hand mirror to inspect his work.

“It’s…,” His voice trails off for a second, and there’s the barest hint of _awe_ in it. Georgi wonders when the last time Yuri was allowed to make a decision for himself was. “Acceptable.”

Not quite a glowing review, but Georgi smiles all the same, tries very hard not to roll his eyes. “Gee thanks.”

And then for a moment, Yuri squirms uncomfortably, like he doesn’t know what to do next. He rises suddenly from where he’s perched on the end of Georgi’s bed and bolts towards the door, only stopping for a moment. “—thanks, Gosha.”

Georgi spends way too long stock still and staring in shock before his expression softens, mercifully before Yuri bolted out the hotel room door. “Anytime, Yura. Anytime.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this other than I like Team Russia as a found family of sorts, and I feel like Georgi is underappreciated.


End file.
